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ZHARA
PROLOGUE
DEATH PAR-TY! DEATH PAR-TY!
We chant these words while drumming our fsts on
the sailboats foor as we sunbathe on the deck, waiting for
some weather to happen. Ive known my fellow runaways
for less than a day, but were already tight enough to sum-
mon a suicide pact.
Reggie, Holly, and I are big fakes. Our death party is
not really a suicide pact. Its a romp, a dare, the name weve
given our adventure to reach the legendary Demesnewhere
only the dead are allowed entry without prior invitation, so
they can be recycled into clone slaves. The richest people
in the world, who own the hideaway of Demesne, restrict
human access to their hallowed island to only their invited
guests. Three runaway juvenile delinquents with a crazy
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dream to see Demesne would never reach that destination
as invited guests. But well risk high seas and whatever else
happens to try gaining access. Fun!
Death par-ty!
In Cerulea, where we come from, the sun and heat are
relentless. The only interesting weather we get there is
when yet another brush fre in the hills sends plumes of
black smoke over our town, and our water supply is turned
of for a day or two to redirect the scarce resource toward
the fres. The fres happen so often, theyre not even catas-
trophes. Theyre just more destructionbut less hardship,
were constantly reminded by our parents, than what their
generation experienced.
As the sun blazes down from a cloudless blue sky over
our idle spot, somewhere in the ocean within the Demesne
archipelago, my fellow runaways and I chant, we taunt, we
beg: Death par-ty!
Were baked, were bored, and were high on raxia.
Whatd you guys get sent to the camp for? Reggie
asks Holly and me. Recounting crimes and misdemeanors:
always a great conversation starter.
Vandalizing a desalinization plant, says Holly. It was
just some cool-looking grafti. I still dont see what the big
deal was. Its not like I blew the place up.
Reggie says, Old people who grew up during the Water
Wars get way too possessive and freaked out over their pre-
cious liquid resource.
Their trauma, I sigh. Get over it already.
Holly says, I didnt realize the building was so high-
security and whatever. It was ugly and sterile. I thought it
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needed some color. And some artfully painted penis clown
faces.
Reggie busts out laughing. That was you? I saw it from
the other side of the fence as the security team was cleaning
it up. Great work!
Thanks, Holly says. Sadly, the judge didnt appreciate
my creative vision. He sent me to the camp for rehabilita-
tion. What about you guys?
Reggie says, I stole a dune rider and went joyriding.
Big deal, Holly says, unimpressed.
Reggie adds, I stole it of the grounds of the Base.
Whoa, Holly and I both say.
My dads a drill sergeant on the Base, I say. He cares
way more about the Universal Military than he does about me,
I dont say. Youre lucky you only got sent to troubled-teen
wilderness camp. It could have been prison.
It should have been, says Reggie. But my moms a
lieutenant colonel in the Uni-Mil. Howd ya think I got on
the Base, anyway? She begged the judge for leniency. What
was your crime, Zhara?
Raxia addiction! I say, and we all laugh. For the
ancient Greeks, ataraxia was a word meaning sublime tran-
quility, freedom from stress and worry. Raxia is the modern
word for the pill that provides that same feeling. Tingles of
sweet, calm awesome.
My reply is funny, but also true. My dads solution to
dealing with a teenage daughter with a drug problem was to
send her away rather than deal with her. He knew I couldnt
resist the ofer: either be kicked out of the house, or kick
the habit at the wilderness camp. Its near Demesne. Dad
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knew if he dangled that word, Id go without resistance.
Even though the camps island location was pretty far from
the paradise island of Demesne, it was the closest I could
probably ever hope to get.
When I was little, my mother used to put me to sleep
with a lullaby she made up about Demesne.
I dream of Deh-mez-nay, the harsh world so far away.
I dream of Deh-mez-nay, the heaven where Zhara and
I will stay.
Our home back then was strewn with pictures and
paintings of Demesne: its violet sea, its emerald mountains,
its luxury homes built for the richest people in the world.
The images were so prominently displayed throughout the
house, I think I was four before I realized we didnt actu-
ally live on Demesne. Our starved world needs to be reminded
of beauty, Mom would say every time Dad protested a new
Demesne-themed house decoration: violet-painted bedroom
walls, fake palm trees in the living room, a secondhand
oxygen machine to pump her tiny craft room with a knock-
of version of the premium air experienced everywhere on
the real island of Demesne. Why shouldnt paradise be for
everyone? Mom always asked.
I guess Mom got tired of waiting for Dad to share her
enthusiasm for escaping to paradise. Mom left us when I
was eight and died a year later, but I never stopped hoping
to get to Demesne, for her.
Only yesterday, I met Reggie and Holly for the frst
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time at camp orientation, and I invited them to run away
with me. I suggested we steal a sailboat in the dead of night
and set sail for Demesne. The raxia I had secreted away in
my dufel bag was all the incentive they needed. We knew
wed never be allowed into Demesne even if by some mira-
cle we did get there. But why not have fun trying to crash
that islands exclusive rich-people party?
Death party incoming! Reggie exclaims with excite-
ment.
For serious, says Holly, pointing upward to the sky.
Pretty! I sigh.
The change in the sky is so sudden, its like day has
immediately turned to night. Gone are the cloudless blue
sky and blazing sun, replaced by a dark gray sky peppered
with billowing purple clouds swirled in magenta tones.
None of the pictures Ive seen do them justice. These clouds
are the signature runof from Demesnes protected sphere.
The private island of the worlds wealthiest people is bio-
engineered for perfection, ofering its residents supreme
luxury and tranquility. The side efect is that the wider area
of the Demesne archipelago is cursed with the accumulated
bad weather that is diverted away from the exclusive island.
The volatile weather systems that are pushed back from
Demesne to keep it safe and serene bind together outside
the islands ring to create monster storms that wreak havoc
across the rest of the archipelago. The magical- looking toxic
clouds are the picturesque bonus.
Those clouds are freaking insane with the amazing,
Holly whispers.
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A light rain starts to shower our bodies, and its weird
the rain is warm, and feels almost sweet, like drops of
lavender candy.
Best death party ever, I murmur, loving the rich
purple-magenta swirls in the sky and the soothing, warm
wetness on my skin. This is what toxic-magic rain feels like!
Gorgeous.
Then the sea below us begins to angrily churn, quickly
turning to a roar, and we fall silent. No more small talk.
Were too stunned, and too baked, to react. We barely know
how to sail a boat, much less in a storm. Theres no time to
panic, because immediately the wind picks up, and the rain
turns to sharp hail that pellets our skin like knife blades.
This is not nice rain anymore.
We scream, but theres no way for us to take cover.
Within seconds, the boat lists so violently that we can barely
hold on to the rails. A wave several stories tall approaches,
raising the boat up like a roller coaster, then crashing it
back down. The boat tilts over, throwing our bodies into
the bitter, violent sea.
I see nothing but gray, churning ocean as I tumble
below the surface, desperately trying to hold my breath in
before my lungs rapidly fll with water. I need light from
the surface to guide my way up, but there is none, probably
because I dont deserve the help. I didnt earn it, as Dad
used to remind me after failed dives. But not for nothing
am I an Olympic-diving-training dropout; somehow, my
body goes on autopilot, and I manage to swim up to the
surface even without light to guide me. I grab on to the
rope ladder at the side of the boat, gasping for air. I climb
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back onto the boat, hoping to fnd Reggie and Holly there.
I see them in the water on the other side of the boat. The
current thrashes them, and their arms fail as they try not to
drown. I look around frantically for life vests. I see them on
the other side of the boat and race across to grab them. Just
as I toss the vests overboard to Reggie and Holly, another
wave breaks across the boat.
This time, the waters assault is enough to kill me.
I dont know how I know, but I know.
I am dead.
Even in death, I feel cheated. Wheres my freaking white
light? My heartbeat has slowed to a near stop. I should be
on my way to the sweet afterlife. But all I get is pitch-black
darkness, an unending abyss I try to swim through, dive
through, cajole into light, and beg for clarity.
This netherworld must be my punishment for the death
party. Its my punishment for being such a terrible daugh-
ter. Its vengeance on the hellbeastmy dads name for me,
announcing his disappointment that my headstrong nature
continually gets in the way of his hopes for me. Ive shamed
myself and shamed my father. I can never go home after
what Ive done. Ive diedand taken two other runaways
with me, at my invitation.
Ive been sent neither to heaven or hell, but to limbo. Its
some horrible halfway house of black space and blank space.
I fght it. I cant help myself. I scream even though no one
can hear me. I kick. I wail. I rage. Resisting being told what
to dodie, alreadyis what I do best.
My mind feels awake, but I cant move, I cant see
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anything, and I can barely breathe. I know my body lies on
the soaked boats deck, which I feel being pushed up and
down by the rise and fall of the ocean. The movement is
calmer nowthe worst of the storm is overbut the dial-
down of the storms fury cant save me. Im already dead,
just like Reggie and Holly.
Arent I?
I hear a loud, gruf male voice call out, Yo, theres a
body in the boat below! Looks like a real Tasty. Im doubt-
ing this is Gods voice announcing my passage through the
pearly gates. Im pretty sure S/Hed word it better.
Another voice, also male, says, Two other bodies foat-
ing by, starboard side.
Tasty? asks the other man.
Not Demesne-level aesthetic.
Im dead, but fattered. Tasty is the slang term often used
to describe Demesne workers, because theyre ridiculously
good-looking. Demesne is serviced by clones replicated from
recently deceased human bodies called Firsts. The Firsts
are twentysomethings chosen specifcally for their supe-
rior lookshot bodies and gorgeous faces. Personality not
required: the Firsts souls are extracted so that the clones can
be functioning workers on Demesne without the complica-
tions of human emotion. Rich people want their servants to
have a pleasing aestheticand not be troubled with free will.
Pulse?
I feel a hand press a fnger against my wrist. Negative.
Its the raxia, I realize. Before the storm hit, I took too
much, then baked in the sun too long. That has to be whats
caused my heart to seem like its not beating. Ive felt this
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before when taking too much raxiathe slowing down of
the heart thats taken many raxia users to their premature
deaths. But my heart has never slowed this muchnever
enough to be mistaken for dead.
Bring this one on board, then. Didnt expect such a
good haul today.
Id always heard that the bodies of Demesne clones
came from pirates who stormed and pillaged naval carriers
that were repurposed into refugee camps after the Water
Wars, but I assumed that was a myth. Nows a sucky time
to fnd out the myth is true.
My body is completely numb, and my heart is only a
faint whisper of a beat that only I can feeland just barely.
I cant move, I cant speak, I cant protest.
I hear Moms voice in my head: I dream of Deh-mez-nay.
Guess Ill make it there after all, Mom. I just never
thought it would be this way. As a First.
Please let me be all the way dead when it fnally happens,
when my soul is extracted and a clone is replicated from my body.
Im sorry, Reggie. Im sorry, Holly.
Xander, I ll never stop loving you.
I feel my body being hoisted through the air, and my
mind goes empty, mercifully returned to darkness.
And then, like a sudden jolt of electricity, I wake up.
This time I can move. I touch my index fngers to my
thumbs and stretch my toes long and wide. I can feel. This
might be real. My eyes futter open, and I can see! This is real.
IM NOT DEAD!
Im in a white room that looks like a medical laboratory.
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I breathe in, tasting the air. Yes, I can actually taste it. The
air tastes of honeysuckle and jasmine, of a sweetness so
beautiful I am immediately soothed. I made it to Demesne!
I couldnt have been cloned. My soul is intact. I feel it
now, raging in confusion and panic mixed with a sudden
and profound sense of gratitude. Somehow, I cheated death.
I make a silent vow: If I have truly been given this gift, I will
never, ever do raxia again. I will appreciate this second chance,
and not screw it up this time.
I bite down hard on my tongue, to make sure this is
real, relieved and joyful when I taste blood. This isnt a
dream. I really am alive.
So now what am I supposed to do?
I dont know where to go. I dont think Im capable of
even standing up yet.
Then I realize Im not alone. A male fgure stands over
me, dressed in a white lab coat. I can tell he is a Demesne
clone, for hes branded with a black rose aestheticized on
his left temple. Ive seen images of these couture clones in
news storieswho hasnt?but Ive never seen a real one
before. The human age of this guys First would have prob-
ably been early twenties. He has olive-toned skin, jet-black
hair, and a hard face softened by a Demesne clones signa-
ture fuchsia eyes. Hes very tall and obscenely buf, with a
body that looks like a professional bodybuilderssturdy in
its mass, yet strangely vulnerable.
Who are you? I ask him.
Im called the Mortician, he says. His face mimics the
human expression curious. And I just resurrected you.